


creep

by sunmoonandbucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Swearing, Violence, mention/description of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23133022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunmoonandbucky/pseuds/sunmoonandbucky
Summary: Bucky somehow ends up settling in Bucharest after getting away from HYDRA, and finds himself enamored with the girl who lives in the apartment across the alley from his.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. one

A car horn. Someone shouting. A baby crying. The neighbor stumbling through his apartment next door, clearly drunk. The little bit of light coming in from the black curtains on his window, which means that the neighbor across the alley from him is awake. Strange at this time of night.

Bucky’s senses are on overdrive, but that’s not unusual. Ever since he had gotten out of HYDRA’s clutches, it was like his skin was crawling. He was always looking over his shoulder and keeping his head down. Doing anything to not be noticed. At one point in Paris, he’d actually gone into an alley and jumped into a dumpster, hiding there for over an hour just because he felt like someone was watching him.

It helps that he has his own apartment now, his own little place where he can hide away from the rest of the world. He’d managed to get the money for first month’s rent after working little odd jobs over the past few months while moving through Europe—helping move furniture, washing dishes, stuff like that. He even chopped lumber at one point.

He never stayed anywhere more than three days, but now that he’s got an apartment and he’s planning on staying for at least a few months, he needs a job. A steady job. One with hours and guaranteed pay. Pronto. He had enough money for two more months, not including utilities, but he would prefer to save that.

Just in case someone recognizes him and he has to leave with no warning.

But he really hopes he won’t have to. Even though the apartment isn’t great, it—and everything in it—is his. It’s not much, but it’s been over seventy years since he had something he could call his own and that’s enough for him. Even the furniture was his, even though most of it had been dragged out of dumpsters.

He let out a long sigh as he picked up the newspaper he had tossed on his table when he first got home, pacing around the small space. His pencil is tapping a little absentmindedly against the thin paper as he searches the classifieds. Occasionally he circles an ad, making a note to inquire about an application the next day.

The only problem with that is that he has no history. He has no former places of employment, no references, nothing. Not a lot of places would hire someone without all of that.

But the light that was coming in from his curtains was… irritating him. Every few minutes, he’d glance over at it before shaking his head and turning back to the paper. It was late at night, and most people were asleep by now. Shouldn’t his kind-of neighbor be asleep, too? He tentatively moved to the window, using a finger to push the curtain open just enough for him to peek through.

The sight that greeted him was something out of a dream.

In the apartment across the alley from his, was a girl. No, a woman. Definitely a woman. You. You held a phone between your ear and your shoulder as you dug through the boxes surrounding you. The light blue jean capris you wore were ripped in the knees, but he reminded himself that it was the style nowadays. Your hair was pulled up into a messy bun and there was a sheen of sweat covering your face.

And you were beautiful.

“Who are you?” Bucky murmured, finding himself entranced. He was pretty sure he’d ever seen such a gorgeous creature in his entire life. He’s sure he would’ve remembered, if he had. The newspaper in his hand was long forgotten. He realized, watching as your curtains blew in the late summer breeze, that you had left your window open. It wasn’t dangerous, per se, since the both of you were on the fourth floor, but it caught his attention. Biting his lip harshly, he ever-so-carefully cracked open his own window, making sure not to make any sound. He didn’t want to chance you hearing him and locking him out.

“—got to the apartment fine, mama,” you said, smiling as you pulled a bunch of books out. You placed them carefully on the shelf you had finally managed to put together after three hours of trying to decipher the instruction manual. You stared at it for a short moment, feeling a burst of pride. It was a little thing, but you did it. You had managed to build something on your own, without anyone helping you. “The apartment’s fine. The building is nice.”

You’ve got a mom. _Of course, she’s got a mom, you dumb ass_ , Bucky thought to himself, a scowl marring his features, _Everyone has a fucking mom._ He was aware that this was a little creepy. Actually, it was more than just a little bit creepy.

“The area’s nice, too,” you said, and that causes his eyebrows to shoot to his hairline because it’s really not. The area around his building and yours is one of the most dangerous areas of Bucharest. In fact, he was pretty sure he heard a police siren pass by just a few minutes earlier, and there was the sound of a bottle breaking in one of the apartments below. “Yes, it’s completely safe. Yes, I still have my pepper spray. Yes, mama, and my taser. Don’t worry.”

He’s pretty sure that he could sit listening to your voice all night and never once get tired of it. The lilt of your voice has him thinking you’re from somewhere in the southern part of America. Possibly the Midwest. The way you use ‘mama’ instead of ‘mom’ is another clue.

“Mama. Mama.” You smiled, clearly a little exasperated, as you tried to stop your mother’s rambling, pausing your unpacking. “ _Mama_ , I have to go, okay? It’s late here.” You tucked a piece of hair that had fallen from your bun behind your ear. “It’s past two in the morning here. Yes, I know that it’s only six in the afternoon there.” Six in the afternoon. So he was right about you being from the Midwest or the South. “I’m about to head to bed.” He watched as you sat down on your bed, holding the phone in your hand. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay? I love you. Bye.”

You tossed your phone onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling for a minute before you stand and—oh. _Oh._

Bucky felt his heart skip a beat as he watched you tug your tank top off, letting it fall to the floor and leaving you in a white bralette that makes his cheeks go a rather dark shade of pink. He realizes in that moment that he’s not sure you realized that your open window meant that people could see you. That _he_ could see you.

And if his heart skipped a beat at seeing you in your bra, he’s pretty sure it stopped when you shimmied out of your jeans and kicked them to the side, leaving you in just your underwear. He wanted to stop watching—really, he did, he doesn’t enjoy feeling like a pervert—but he’s mesmerized. The lamp in the corner of your room seems to form a halo around you as you reach up and tug your hair out of your bun. He’s never thought that messy hair was beautiful, but now he thinks it might be his favorite thing. And it’s not in a sick, sexual way. He’s just _actually_ shocked at how beautiful you are.

His eye is caught by another glimmer of light, but it’s coming from his own apartment. As he looked down, he realized that the light coming in from the small crack in the curtains is reflecting off of his left arm. He’s overwhelmed with disgust for himself, and he turns away from the window, beginning to pace around the small space. How could he, an ugly science experiment gone wrong, ever think he was worthy enough to look at you?

“Don’t be fucking _weird_ ,” he muttered to himself, running his fingers through his long hair as he tries to stop himself from going back to the window. But his resolve broke within seconds, and he found himself with one knee on the heater underneath the window as he peeked through the curtains.

But he finds himself disappointed as he only gets a glimpse of you—now in an over-sized t-shirt—turning off that lamp, leaving the room in complete darkness.

It worries him that you didn’t close your window before going to bed, but he decides that the obvious solution is to leave his open, too, so he can hear if something happens. Just in case. He wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, after all.

That night, he crawled onto the mattress on the floor and dreamed of soft h/c hair and laughter that reminds him of windchimes.

* * *

It scared Bucky, just how easy it was to fall into a routine. The day after he had first seen you, he found a job washing dishes in a nearby restaurant. He’d start work everyday at two in the afternoon, and then he’d work until eleven. He’d get home just in time listen to your nightly phone calls, watching silently as you worked on unpacking. Most of the time, you talked to your mom, though occasionally you’d talk to some girl named B/F/N. Then, around two in the morning, you’d say your goodbyes and I love yous before changing into your sleep shirt and crawling into bed.

He had also gotten into the habit of keeping his window open even if he wasn’t ‘observing’ you. He enjoyed being able to hear you pitter patter around your apartment. His favorite was when you’d quietly sing under your breath, or dance along to the weird music playing from your cell phone. He still hadn’t had time to catch up on all the pop culture, but you make him want to.

More specifically, he wanted you to teach him all that he needed to know. He wanted to spend hours with you listening to music, watching movies, etc., etc.

It had been a particularly rough day at the restaurant the first time it happened. He had barely slept the night before, nightmares having left him too scared to rest his head, and his boss had been in a mood. It had only been about two weeks since he’d started… _observing_ you, and it had easily become the best part of his day. Part of him still wanted to have a chat with you about leaving your window open, but that was besides the point.

You had been talking to your mom that night, talking excitedly about how much cheaper food from the farmer’s market was in Bucharest. Since you had finished unpacking your room, you had gotten into the habit of curling up into the big arm chair to the side of the window, and he appreciated that it was angled slightly so he could still see your profile.

“Tell Jason I love him tomorrow, okay? And could you ask if he got my letter?” There’s a sad smile on your lips that makes him wonder who Jason is. “Yeah. Yeah. I love you, too. Call you soon. Goodnight.”

After you hung up, he waited for you to turn off your lamp after pulling on that giant t-shirt, but you didn’t. You sat on the edge of your bed, running your fingers over your comforter. Your mind was… somewhere else.

“I know you’re watching me.”

He practically leaped across the room, desperate to get away from the window as his heart pounded against his ribcage. Almost as if he wanted to pretend like it hadn’t happened—like you hadn’t just spoken to him—he crawled into his bed and shut his eyes tight.

He hoped desperately that you’d turn off your light and go to bed, but it didn’t happen. The light continued to peek through his curtains, and he could hear you still moving around your room.

“What the fuck happened to routine?” He muttered to himself. “This is not part of your routine.”

The clock on his nightstand reads 2:17 AM, meaning you were almost twenty minutes off schedule. He figured that you wouldn’t stay up much longer, but as time passed and the clock struck three in the morning, he realized that something was wrong.

He peeled back his thin blanket before slipping out of bed, stepping where he knows the floor won’t creak as he makes his way back to the window. Bucky’s careful to only open the curtain enough to be able to see you. He didn’t want you noticing that he was back.

It confused him to see you sitting up in bed and tapping at the keys on your laptop. The light from your computer only seems to highlight how tired you looked. Your hair was back up in that messy bun, glasses slipping down your nose. He wished he could push them back up for you or read what you were writing.

If he was being honest with himself, he just wished he was closer to you.

It concerned him when you didn’t go to bed until six in the morning, only to wake up just four hours later. He wanted to tell you how unhealthy it was for you to not get at least seven to eight hours, but he knew that would make him a hypocrite. He maybe got five hours each night, and that’s if he was lucky. He’d always end up waking up every few hours and struggle to fall back asleep.

* * *

It was another two days before you spoke to him again to him.

He’s sitting underneath the window, book in hand and reading by the light coming from your apartment, when it happens.

“Hello?”

He stiffened, his grip on the book tightening.

“I know you’re there.”

 _Fuck._ He never should have done… whatever it was that he was doing. He felt like banging his head against the fucking wall until he reached his brain. “You’re so fucking _stupid_ ,” he whispered to himself, knowing you wouldn’t be able to hear. “Why the _fuck_ would you keep _doing_ this shit? You were gonna get caught eventually, you creep—"

“Please don’t run from me.”

Well… He hadn’t expected that. Bucky sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat. He hoped it would be enough for you to know he was listening because he doesn’t think he can actually bring himself to talk to you yet. He can’t taint you. You’re this beautiful young woman with her whole life ahead of him and he’s… Well, there’s a lot of words that come to mind. Pervert. Weapon. Creep. Dumbass. Monster. Any of those work, really.

“I know I should be telling you that it’s weird, you watching me,” you said, and he’s caught between loving hearing you talk to him for once and feeling like crawling under a rock and dying from embarrassment. “But you make me feel not alone. I don’t know. That’s probably strange of me to say.”

He coughed a little, clearing his throat. “I can handle strange.” His voice sounded so crass, so rough, compared to the sweet honeyed timbre of yours. “I’m sorry for watching.”

“Like I said,” you giggled— _GIGGLED_ —and Buck feels like he’s gone straight to heaven, “I don’t mind.” There’s a pause. “Though it would be easier talking to you if I could see your face.”

“Can I—” Bucky’s hands tugged on the hem of his shirt nervously, his mouth drier than any desert—and he’s been to a lot of them. “Can I just listen to you talk for a while? I… I like your voice.” His hands are sweating as he rambled on, “I-I wasn’t watching you because I’m a pervert, I just really like listening to your voice.” He coughed again, wincing at the sound. “I know it’s weird, and you don’t have—"

“What do you want to hear?”

It surprised him that you actually agreed, knowing how _fucking_ creepy he was being. “Why, uh… Why’d you come to Bucharest?”

“I’m a writer,” you hummed, an emotion he can’t name coloring your voice. “And I figure you write best about what you know, what you’ve lived through.” He can imagine you curled up in that arm chair, your knees tucked against your chest as you talked. “Life in the Bible Belt doesn’t really give you much experience other than church and comfort food.” The sigh you let out causes him to frown. “And I… I didn’t want to be like all the other girls from my hometown, you know? I didn’t want to be stuck. The only two options available there are settling down with your high school sweetheart and going away to college, and even if you go to school, you’re just going to end up back in town whether you graduated or dropped out. Either way, you end up with a shitty husband who drinks Bud Light, more kids than you thought you wanted because birth control is thought to be against God’s word, and a white picket fence.”

He can hear in your voice how frustrated you are with the situation, and as he hears how ragged your breaths had become, he gets a picture in his mind of you, your chest heaving as you stared up at him with those stunning—

No. He couldn’t be imaging… _that_ sort of thing. He had just fucking told you that he wasn’t watching you because he was a pervert.

“You still there?”

He bit his lip as he nods, before realizing you can’t see him. “Yeah. I’m still here.” His brows furrowed as he felt the metal heater pressing into his back harshly. “What made you decide to leave?”

“You want the truth?” You asked, and it makes him smile a little.

“Unless you’ve got a lie that would make a better story,” he teased, and he’s rewarded by a snort of laughter.

“I, uh…” You sighed, and he hears a thump that he assumes is your head hitting the wall. “My high school sweetheart proposed to me.” When he didn’t answer right away, shocked out of his mind, you continued, “Ironic, isn’t it?”

He can only assume that since you’re in Bucharest and not where it is that you’re from, you left him and you were single. “What happened?”

You stand, and he can hear your floorboards creaking as you walked around your apartment. “After I graduated college, I went home to visit my family and my boyfriend, Ian. I figured I’d stay there for a month or two before deciding where to go. I had always planned on leaving. I knew I wasn’t cut out for small town life.”

Bucky decided to take a chance and slowly stands, leaning with his knee on the heater before carefully peeking through the curtain. Sure enough, you’re slowly pacing the floor, your hands moving animatedly.

“Ian and I had never talked about the future. Even though we’d been together since our junior year of high school and made it through college, it never felt serious.” You paused, stopping in your tracks for a moment. “And part of this is my fault. I’m not afraid to admit that. But he also never told me that he was as serious about us as he was.” You huffed, your arms crossing over your chest. “He thought the fact that we’d been together for years meant we were meant to be together, but… Our relationship felt like a dead end. We’d see each other maybe once every other month since I was away at school, and it felt like we only did the things we did because we were expected to. Because it was routine.”

That lamp behind you is creating another halo around your figure, and he briefly thought to himself, _God, Steve would have a field day drawing a dame like you._ It never failed to surprise him when he gets little bits of his memories back. He started to remember Steve a few days after he got away from HYDRA, and little things kept coming. The smell of his ma’s cooking. The Howling Commandos singing as they drunkenly stumbled back to camp from the bar. The various alleys he dragged Steve out of after beating up the punks that came after his scrawny slip of a best friend. The starched fabric of his sisters’ Sunday church clothes.

“And when I got back from college…” Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, and it drove him up a wall. “We were at this little diner. Everyone in the entire town went to Sally’s after church on Sundays, so the place was packed, and he just… got down on his knee in front of everyone and asked me to marry him. Put me on the spot in front of everyone. And in that moment… I realized that if I said yes, I was going to become one of those people that I always said I wouldn’t be.” You stared at the pictures you had on your fridge, feeling a small pang. “He didn’t even get upset when I said no. He just… kind of nodded. Isn’t that messed up? We were together for six years, and when we broke up… It was like nothing happened. Our relationship had been dead for years.” You moved forward, your fingers gently brushing against a picture of you and a redheaded man. “That night, I went home and packed my bags. Closed my eyes, pointed to a map, and here I am now.”

Buck can’t help but be a little impressed. The second you realized you didn’t like where your life was headed, you had changed it. It took a lot of strength to do something like that, and not many had it. “If you don’t want a safe life with Ian in the Bible Belt, what _do_ you want?” He asked, his voice small.

“I want…” You trailed off, wistfulness in your voice. “I want passion. I want to feel something when I look at the person I marry, you know? With Ian… We were just going through the motions. The sex was boring. He never held my hand.” He smiled a little as he watched you start to sway around the room, your eyes closed as a picture formed in your mind. “I want someone who holds me close in the middle of the night. Who kisses me first thing in the morning and before we go to bed. I want to make cookies at three in the morning and throw flour at each other.” You laughed a little self-deprecatingly, your cheeks a rosy pink. “I’m sorry. That’s stupid. I shouldn’t be—”

“It’s not,” he interrupted, shocked at his own forwardness. “It’s not stupid.”

You curled back up into the chair, humming quietly. “Thank you, for saying that.” You stared down at the mug of cold tea that was on the little table to your right. “Do I get to ask any questions about you?”

“The other night, you didn’t go to bed until almost six in the morning.” Bucky completely ignored your question, watching the various emotions flicker over your face. “Why?”

“So that’s a no.” You leaned our head back against the chair, closing your eyes. “Sometimes it’s insomnia. Other times, I just get an idea for a story and can’t go to bed until I have at least a rough draft written.”

“What do you write?”

“Fiction. Well, fiction based in real life.”

“What does that mean?”

You picked up the mug, swirling the greenish liquid around and watching as the tea leaves settled in the bottom. “I write the stories I need to hear. I’m tired of reading books and plays and all that about a girl who’s beautiful—but doesn’t know it—who’s stuck in a love triangle with two model-like boys. Oh, and they’re all sixteen.”

He wanted to pull his curtains open completely so he could look at you. He wanted to push his window all the way open and lean out of it, stare into your eyes as he listens to you. But he knows that this’ll have to be enough for now. “So what stories do you write?”

You go quiet, and he’s worried that you’re going to clam up on him. When you did finally speak, several long moments later, your voice was shaky. “I wrote this one play about a girl who’s dad was an alcoholic. He’d come home every night smelling of whiskey. His hands would still covered in dirt from working on the farm all day as he grabbed the girl by the wrist and held her hand on the stove. He’d slammed her head into the wall until she couldn’t walk straight.” He can hear how hard you’re working to keep your breaths even, your heart rate calm. It makes his heart clench in his chest, his hand gripping the windowsill. “But when she was fifteen, her older brother took their dad’s shotgun—a Remington 12-gauge—and shot him clean in the head. Her brother ended up in prison, but her and her mama visit him every chance they get.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed in on how the mug in your hand shakes. “He eventually told her to use the money that was saved for him to go to college to get out of their small town.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, his voice cracking. His hand was gripping the curtain tightly, and he knew that if you turned around, you’d be able to see at least part of him.

You stared straight ahead, your eyes glazed over. “My dad used to wake Jason up at four in the morning to sit out in the woods for hours during hunting season, but wouldn’t ever let me even think about touching it.” Your hands were still shaking and you felt so tense. You never felt good sharing your story, even if it was in a roundabout way. “But Jason never did like hunting, and I’m better with a knife than anything.” There’s a small cough as you cleared your throat and stood up to place the mug in the sink, not wanting to dwell on your past. “So can I at least get your name? I think I deserve that if you’re going to be watching me, yeah?”

And Bucky desperately wanted to give you something. He wanted to give you something—and not because you’ve just given him something so deep and personal that it made his heart hurt, but because he realizes that he genuinely likes you—so he rubbed his hands on his jeans and swallowed down the lump in his throat. “James. My name is James.”

And the smile on your face made it all worth it as you said, “Nice to meet you, James. I’m Y/N.”

* * *

The first time you saw him was a coincidence—or a twisted bit of fate. Bucky had been walking home from work and was just down the street from the block you two lived on, when a figure stumbled out of a tiny convenience store and bumped into him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

He froze in place as he looked down at you, never having expected to see you outside of your apartment. _That’s stupid, she’s not just gonna sit in her apartment and never leave, you freak_ , he thought to himself. You’re wearing a hoodie and a pair of leggings—a twenty-first century thing he very much appreciates—and he can’t help but love how _cozy_ you looked. Your lips are a little chapped by the early fall breeze, but you still looked absolutely _adorable_.

It made him realize how dirty he was, covered in grease and bits of food from washing dishes all night. His hair had mostly fallen out of the bun he had put it in that afternoon when he first got there, and he’s sure that he smells like dirty dish water.

He was so caught up in how awful he looked compared to you that it took him a moment to realize that you were talking to him, your brows furrowed.

“Are you okay?” You asked, shifting your grip on the paper brown bag in your arms. You’re even more beautiful up close, and he wanted to reach out and caress your cheek, feel how soft your skin was under his calloused thumb.

He knew that if he spoke, there’d be a very good chance that you’d recognize his voice. After all, the two of you had spent every night for the past month talking. In all that time, he’d never let you see his face, no matter how many times he’d asked. He kept his black curtains shut, though he’d always pull it open just enough to watch you as you talked.

So he just nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line.

You looked at him for another long moment, biting your lip as your eyes scanned over his face. “Well, I’m sorry. Again.” You turned to leave, before pausing and glancing back once more. “You have really pretty eyes, by the way.”

And Bucky smiled the entire way home, even if he waited until you disappeared into your building before continuing onto his.

* * *

The next time you saw him was a mistake.

The two of you hadn’t stopped talking until four in the morning that night, meaning he was exhausted. He wouldn’t ever tell you that, of course, not wanting to be asleep when he could be talking to you. In fact, it took you almost passing out in your arm chair for him to suggest you both go to bed and talk the next day.

But he was, in fact, very tired, and he was a light sleeper, so when a crash rang out through his apartment, he immediately jolted awake.

After dragging himself out of bed, he flipped on the light and was greeted by the sight of his curtains on the floor. The rod had slipped out of place and hit the metal heater.

He’d just gotten to the window and was reaching down to grab the rod when he hears your voice sleepily calling, “James?” and before he even had time to react, you’d made your way to the window and seen him.

You’d seen him.

He froze where he stood, his face draining of all color.

But you just looked at him for a long moment, recognition in your eyes. You remembered him from when he’d run into you outside the shop three weeks before. You were bundled up in a hoodie to protect you from the chill of Romanian autumns, your hair mussed from sleep. Part of him wanted to tell you that you wouldn’t be cold if you’d close your window, but he enjoyed being able to hear you any time of the day too much.

He could also tell you that putting on pants would help, but he’s not _that_ stupid. He enjoyed looking at your legs—especially when you were wearing those adorable fuzzy socks with the reindeer on them—and if he happened to sometimes catch a glimpse of your panties, well…

He was sure that you were going to cuss him out, or something. You weren’t dumb. You’d realize that he knew who you were when he’d bumped into you and he hadn’t said anything. It’s what any normal person would’ve done.

But as you grinned at him, he was reminded that you weren’t exactly normal.

“Told you you’ve got pretty eyes.”


	2. two

“James.”

Bucky immediately looks up from where he’s pulled a chair over to rest by the window. His curtains were opened just like yours, and he finds the sweet sight of you looking at him through your eyelashes. You’d pulled your armchair over so that you were facing the window just as he was. “Yes, Y/N?”

“Are we ever going to talk in person?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”

And god, Bucky can’t help the smile that spread over his face as he watched you huff, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. It’d been almost two months since you’d seen what he looked like and now he just wondered why he ever hid from you. You didn’t look at him like he was a monster or some freak. You looked at him like he was a normal man. A lonely one, sure, but normal.

“James, you know what I mean,” you said, your voice suddenly soft. You had your arms crossed on the windowsill, your head resting atop. Your lips were pursed in a way that always made his heart stutter. “We’ve been friends for two months now. Can’t we—I don’t know—spend time together? In the same space?”

“I’m just having a hard time understanding why you’d want to,” he said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. He’d been getting more and more memories back, but with each one, he just grew more disappointed. He wanted to be the man he was back in the forties. He wanted to be able to twirl you around the dance floor and compliment you without having an anxiety attack. He wanted to be able to introduce you to his ma and his sisters, to Steve.

It also didn’t help that he was irrevocably in love with you and you had no idea.

He had realized it about three weeks into your new found friendship, and it had really thrown him for a loop.

* * *

_Bucky let out a sigh as he finally unlocked his apartment and slipped inside. It had been another long, long day at work and he had been counting down the minutes until he got to go home since he left earlier that afternoon._

_Because home meant comfortable clothes and getting to talk to you._

_You’d been taking a nap when he left for work, mumbling incoherently when he called out to you that he was leaving. And if he had happened to be a few minutes late because he just sat watching you for an extra few minutes or so, well. That was his business. You had just looked so peaceful. So relaxed. You hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, either, so he was grateful that you’d finally given into his endless nagging and gotten some rest. Since you two had become closer, you’ve each taken it upon yourself to make the other take better care of themselves. You made him eat more than just once every few days. He made you take breaks from writing to drink water and sleep._

_It was turning out to be a very beneficial friendship for the both of you._

_He could hear music playing from his open window and your voice singing along loudly. Some artist that he’s sure you’ve told him about before but never remembers. He’d just have to have you tell him again._

_He always liked that. You telling him about your favorite things. He liked to watch the way you lit up and talked a million miles a minute._

_“James?” He heard you call all the way from the door. “Is that you?”_

_“No, it’s Judy Garland,” he said, causing a delightful giggle._

_He made quick work of his work clothes, stripping down out of view of the window before pulling on a large hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. When he sank into his usual chair, he’s happy to find you dancing. You were twirling around your room in an oversized hoodie and your hair up in a messy bun and fuck—you just really were the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen._

_Your face lights up as you turn and see him in the open window, but you pursed your lips and crossed your arms over your chest. “You spend all that time watching me change and I don’t even get to see you once?”_

_He sputtered, his cheeks going a dark red as he shook his head. “I—I—Uh—What?”_

_You laughed, throwing your head back as you clapped your hands together. “I’m teasing you, James. I don’t mind. You watching, that is.” You drew your bottom lip in between your teeth. You were a little breathes from all the dancing, a little dizzy. He’s reminded of how young you are. How you still are filled with enough joy to dance around your room._

_“You change for everyone, doll?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. His cheeks were still pink, though he tried to seem as unbothered as possible._

_“No. Only for you.”_

_And well. All attempts to fake being calm went out the window as he turned into a blushing school boy yet again._

_But then your e/c eyes widen as the song changes. He thought it was some woman named Beyoncé but he’s not sure. You’d told him so much about pop culture already, but sometimes it was hard to retain, especially when you had such a wide variety you listened to. You taught him about Cher, the Four Seasons, TLC, Selena, and you’d even shared Billie Holiday, not knowing that he was actually from that time and used to listen to her on his little radio._

_You’d always asked how he didn’t know anything about pop culture and he just told you that it was because of amnesia from the incident where he lost his arm._

_Not a total lie. Not a total truth._

_“I love this song!” You shouted happily, and in that moment, he knew._

_He knew he was in love with you._

_And it wasn’t because of how pretty you were, or the fact that he saw you undressed almost every day. It was because you didn’t treat him like a monster. You looked at him like he was some brilliant, amazing man that he knew he wasn’t. Because you danced around your tiny apartment and you shared things with him. You shared your favorite music and movies with him. You told him about your mom and your brother and how you were sad that moving away meant you didn’t get to see them much._

_He fell in love with you because of the little things. The way you curled up in your armchair, and how you’d rub your eyes when you were tired. How excited you had been when you had brought home a little bonsai tree._

_Yes, he was deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with you._

_And all he wanted was to freeze that exact moment in time because he knew that eventually his past would come to bite him in the ass._

* * *

“James, there is no one else on this Earth that I would rather spend time with,” you said, rolling your eyes. “So I need you to stop getting in your head, okay?”

He hesitated, shrugging a little as he grabbed a plum from where it was resting on his kitchen table. “You know just as much as I do that it’s easier said than done.” He stood up and rubbed his hands on his sweats. He hadn’t bothered trying to hide his arm, since you had seen it that night when the curtain had fallen. He’d simply told you that he was a veteran that had lost his arm. It wasn’t a lie, per se. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

His eyes darted over to the various notebooks that were currently on his bed. He had decided to take up writing after seeing you, thinking that maybe if he wrote down everything he’d been remembering, it would help him make some sense. It had worked pretty alright so far, though he was still missing a lot.

“I talked to my mama today,” you hummed as you pulled your computer into your lap, sitting back in the armchair. “Said she wants to know more about this mysterious neighbor I’ve apparently been talking about so much.”

“You talk about me?” He replied, his blue eyes widening.

“Well, yeah,” you said, as though it were obvious. “Why wouldn’t I have?”

You made it sound so simple. Like he was just some normal man you had met. It made his heart flutter, knowing that you thought enough of him to tell your mama about him. Could you really enjoy his presence that much? In his mind, it wasn’t possible. You were way out of his league. This perfect, beautiful, pure soul. You’d faced so much in your young life and you still found it within you to be kind.

You utterly astounded him.

“You amaze me, doll,” he said, a faint smile on his lips as he grabbed the one notebook that wasn’t dedicated to his memories. He had begun writing to you, just in case something happened to him. He could leave the notebook for you and you would know how much you meant to him. That even if he was a monster, you made him feel human.

“I like when you call me that,” you hummed absentmindedly as your fingers tapped away at the keys. “Makes me feel classy.”

“Classy?”

“Yeah,” you said without looking up at him. “Classy.” You leaned your head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes I wish dating was more like it was in the forties, you know?”

He choked on air, panic rising in his chest. His fingers gripped onto the notebook so hard that they turned white. “What? W-Why would you say that?” Did you know who he was? How had you found out? Did you hate him now? What—

“I don’t know,” you said, a sort of wistfulness in your tone that made him relax. So you didn’t know who he was. His fingers returned to their normal color as he focused on calming down his heart rate. “But things meant something back then. Like, holding someone’s hand or kissing them. They mattered.” You sat up suddenly, a crease between your brows. “And dancing, don’t get me started on dancing.”

“What about it?” Bucky asked as he sat forward in his seat, hanging onto your every word. Memories of his own life back then were flashing by in his mind. Images of women with starched skirts and red-painted lips flashed in his mind. Victory curls and crowded dance halls. The smell of whiskey and the feel of a warm body pressed against his, some kind of flowery perfume in his nose. None of his dances had ever meant something to him back then, but he knew that it would mean something with you.

He knew exactly how it would go, too.

He’d pick you up at eight, and he’d be wearing his dress greens. They make his shoulders look strong and broad and his eyes look more green than blue. (He had learned that your favorite color was green a few weeks before and had gone out of his way to wear as much green as possible.) He’d knock on your door right at eight and not a second later. You’d open the door and you’d be in a gorgeous dress and heels that clicked against the pavement as the two of you walked. He’d be completely breathless, blown away by your beauty just as he always was.

When you got to the dance hall, he’d get you a drink first. (He knew you liked whiskey after you had gotten drunk one night and told him all about how you thought the American education system was rigged. But he also learned that it terrified you that you liked whiskey—just like your dad—so you didn’t drink often.) He didn’t have much money, but he’d have scraped together enough to get you top shelf. He’d get himself whatever they had on rail and you two would sit at the bar, laughing and teasing each other. You’d be leaning towards him and looking at him with those eyes that he was sure held all the millions of stars within them.

Then he’d offer you his hand, and he’d ask you to dance. The first song would be some Billie Holiday record, and he’d get to twirl you around the dance floor like no man had before. You’d spend the rest of the night in each other’s arms. You wouldn’t leave the dance hall until the wee hours of the morning, and you’d stumble home laughing. The streetlights would illuminate your face and make you look like a god damn angel. When you two finally got to your door, he’d kiss you goodnight, and leave you there just so he could call you the second he got home.

Yeah. He knew exactly how it’d go. He’d imagined it enough times to have it perfect, though not too perfect.

“Don’t you think there’s something magical about it? Being wrapped up in someone’s arms?” You were off in your own little world, your fingers trailing along the windowsill. “Dancing these days is all grinding and it’s just… I don’t know. It’s not about wanting to be close with someone special. I guess I just… I want that something special.” Your eyes tracked the progress of your fingers along the cracked wood. “I… I want someone to think I’m special enough to take me dancing.”

And oh, how he wanted to give it to you. He’d give anything in the world to give you everything you ever wanted. He wanted to show you just how extraordinary you are.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, hiding your face in your arms. “That sounds so stupid.”

“Stop apologizing.” Bucky frowned and scooted his chair closer to the window. “How many times have I told you that nothing you say is stupid?”

You quirked an eyebrow at him with a bit of a smirk, lowering your hands. “How many times have I told you to not get in your head?”

“Touché,” he chuckled, raising his hands up in surrender. He bit his lip as he regarded you with silent appreciation. “How is your mom though? Anything about Jason?”

You shrugged, resting your chin on your hands absentmindedly. “He’s fine. As fine as he can be in prison. He got letter from last week, though, and he said he liked all the pictures I got.”

There was a look in your eyes that he couldn’t name and he leaned a little forward. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

“Ian’s engaged.”

His eyes almost bulged out of his head. “He’s _what?_ ”

You laughed a little, nodding. “He’s engaged to some girl he met at our town’s community college.”

“Are you…” Bucky swallowed as his eyes scanned your features. “Are you okay?”

There was a sort of thoughtfulness to you as you leaned back in your chair. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” When he raised an eyebrow, you continued, “Just because Ian and I didn’t end up together doesn’t mean I don’t wish him happiness. He was my best friend for years.” You pulled your knees up to your chest and he realizes that you actually _are_ okay with this new development. “And it’s not like he was cheating on me with her before we broke up.”

“I’m happy that it wasn’t a bad breakup,” he said. His eyes flickered down to the notebook where he was writing, his messy scrawl dark on the paper.

“What about you?”

He didn’t look up from the paper, humming, “What about me?”

“Did you ever have a breakup? A girlfriend?”

He looked up then, and he’s surprised by how shy you look. How you were staring down at your hands as they fiddled together. “Uh… I had a few girls I went on a few dates with. Nothing serious.” There’s a few he remembers. Mary. Ruthie. Agnes. Dolores was the last one before he left for the war. But he’s sure that none of them hold a candle to you.

“Why’d they never work out?” You asked, peeking at him through your lashes.

He’d never known you to be shy, and it struck a chord with him. He zeroed in on you, taking in everything about you. The way your hands were tugging on your sleeves. How your eyes wouldn’t meet his for more than three seconds. He could see the way your chest was heaving with fast, unsteady breaths.

Did he… Did he make you nervous?

He knew that this was his chance. He could say something flirty and witty and maybe make you blush because _god_ , you looked so pretty with your cheeks tinted that delightful shade of pink. Clearing his throat, he rubbed his palms on his sweatpants. “Maybe because I was waiting for you,” he said, though it came out a lot shakier than he wanted it to.

And you just smiled that pretty smile of yours, the one reserved just for him, and he’s pleased as your cheeks get rosy. “Goodnight, James,” you said softly, standing up and moving to turn out the light.

And his cheeks hurt as he watched you, but he didn’t mind. Because he had made you blush and that was good. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

* * *

It’s another week or so before you’re actually in the same room, and it didn’t start out too well.

He was in a good mood. His boss let him go four hours early because it was a slow night and they had another dishwasher that night, so he gets to see you four hours early.

Only, when he got home, you weren’t there.

“Y/N?” He said, his brows furrowed as he leaned out of his window, trying to peer into yours. But the light was off and you weren’t home. He could hear the dripping from your sink and the soft hum of your refrigerator, but there was no sign of you.

The silence bothered him. He knew that you left the apartment, of course—he’s not _that_ big of a dumbass—but he had really been hoping you’d be home.

He sat on his bed, still frowning, and grabbed the notebook with everything he’s written to you. The night before, you’d started reading one of your short stories to him, though you hadn’t finished. He’d insisted on you reading it to him, but that was partially because he’d never give up a chance to listen to your voice.

It’s another two hours before you stumbled into your apartment. He can smell the whiskey from across the alley and he immediately stood.

What greeted him made his heart hurt.

You were staring down at your hands as you leaned against the sink, though you hadn’t turned on your lamp yet. You were bathed in the light coming from Bucky’s apartment, casting shadow’s against your cheeks.

“Y/N?” He whispered, concern washing over him.

You grunted in reply, turning suddenly and heading for the fridge. You yanked open the freezer with a force that threw you back a few steps. Bucky watched with frightened eyes as you reached into the freezer and pulled out an unopened bottle of whiskey. It took you a minute to get the cap off, but once you did, you brought the bottle to your lips and started gulping it down like it was the sweetest honey you’d ever tasted.

“Y/N?” He repeated, taking a step closer to the window. “Doll, what’s going on?”

You whirled around, your eyes taking a minute to focus on him. “It’s you!” You light up when you realize who’s talking and stumble towards the window. “’Ve missed you, today,” you grumbled, pursing your lower lip. “You lef’ me.”

He smiled softly, shaking his head. “I had to work, doll. Can’t just live here for free, you know.”

“But you _left_ me!”

“I’m sorry, babydoll,” he said, mirth in his eyes. He knew there was no winning with you while you were like this.

You huffed and stared at him for a long moment before moving to sit in your arm chair. If you were clumsy before, alcohol only made it worse, and he was sure that you were going to fall flat on your ass several times. But you eventually made it there, and your legs hung off one arm as you leaned back against it.

He leaned his elbows against the windowsill, still not quite sure what to do. “Doll, what’s going on?” His sea blue eyes drifted down to the bottle in your hands. “I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s going on.”

Your eyes went dark as you took another swig, wiping your lips after. “I got a call from mom.”

“Yeah?” He’s still not sure what exactly is happening, but he’s getting more and more worried. “What’d she say?”

“Uh…” You laughed, but the sound came out weak and hollow. “Jason got another three years.”

Fuck. That’s… That’s definitely not good. He’d known about your brother since that night you told him about the play you wrote about it. He knew that you’d never told anyone else about, let alone put it on. It was your way of dealing with what had happened to you. What was still happening to you. He knew about how Jason had gotten two years, since the court refused to believe it was entirely self-defense. Something about how your father had been hurting you at the time and not Jason, and that should’ve been enough reason for him to not blow your father’s brains out.

It disgusted Bucky every time he thought about it.

And as much as he’d like to say he didn’t, he imagined what he would’ve done to your father. He’d spent many a night thinking about how he would’ve used his knives on him. Carved up every inch of skin he could find. He’d break his fingers one by one. Bust his kneecaps. And he wouldn’t have shot him. No. That would’ve been too merciful. He would’ve let him slowly bleed out, taken his time with each cut to make sure that he could just barely stay alive until Buck was done with him. He’d castrate him last, and have that be the wound he died from. He’d use a rusty knife just to make it that much more painful, and he’d watch as the light slowly left his eyes. He’d relish in the feeling of killing him because, for once, he’d know that his victim deserved to die.

“What happened, doll?”

His heart broke as he watched you crumple in on yourself, dissolving into tears. “Can… Can you please come over?” You stammered, wiping at your eyes. “Please?”

And he doesn’t even think twice about it. “Yeah.” He stood up, determined to push past his reservations and be there for you. “What apartment?”

“4C.”

He barely had time to remember to grab his keys before he’s running out the door. His feet pound against the stairs and he burst out into the cold Romanian winter air. It’s a short distance to your apartment building next door, and before he knows it, he’s knocking on apartment 4C.

He tried the door after a second, and huffs as he finds it unlocked. “Doll, you really shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” he said, trying to be casual as he steps into your place. It looked different from this end, though he expected that.

And then you’re hugging him. He’s shocked to find you barreling into his chest, your arms wrapped around him as you stood up on your tip toes. His arms shakily move to hold you, his fingers running through your hair gently. Your tears were soaking his shirt but he didn’t mind.

You were actually touching him. Your head was nuzzled into his chest, your fingers grasping the fabric of his sweatshirt. Your hair smelled of your shampoo, vanilla and what he thinks is cinnamon, but it’s slightly overpowered by the smell of the alcohol.

You are soft and beautiful and everything he ever imagined and _more_.

He finally shook himself out of his stupor and moved you towards the bed. It’s only after he’s sat down and holding you in his lap does he speak. “You wanna tell me what happened, babydoll?” He’s got you cradled in his arms, one hand cupping your face as his thumb runs over your cheek ever so gently. Your breathing is shallow still, uneven.

“He got into a fight,” you said, your voice cracking. “Over me, of all things.”

“What?”

You closed your eyes as you explained, “One of the guys he’s in there with stole a picture he had of me.” Your grip on his sweatshirt is tight as ever. “It was, uh… It was this photo of me the summer before my senior year of college. Mom took me to New York for my birthday, said she wanted to help me scope out neighborhoods to move to after I graduated college.”

“Without Ian?”

You peeked up at him, a slight smile on your lips. “Yes, without Ian.” He shifted his grip on you slightly, holding you closer if that was even possible. He loved having you close to him, even if he shouldn’t have been thinking about it like that since you were not in a good place. “It was a picture of me in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” You paused, biting your lip. “Have you ever been?”

He looked at you in surprise. “Where? To the Met?” He slowly nodded, remembering seeing a gorgeous piece of work by Matisse. “It’s been a long time.”

“We should go,” you murmured, and Bucky looked at you in shock. But you didn’t seem to notice his surprise. “One of these days, we should go to New York and go to the Met.” Your brows furrowed as you stared off into space. “I got off track. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, swallowing. “I don’t mind. Really.”

“But, uh, this guy… I think mama said his name was Beck or something. They all go by last names there.” You’re tugging on his shirt, just slightly, and it makes him press a soft kiss to your hair. “This guy took the photo while my brother was at work, and then passed it around… Passed it around the showers.”

You don’t need to say what happened in those showers because he knew. He was a soldier in World War II for crying out loud, and he could remember how the men would hide the photographs they had of their wives, their sisters, their mothers. He can remember more than a few times when the men without a girl at home stole photographs just to make lewd, disgusting comments about it. They also did other things, but that always ended in bloody knuckles and knocked out teeth.

“Jason slammed his head against a wall. Almost killed him,” you whispered, your hands trembling like leaves. Hearing about it just brought you back to that night. The night that he had shot your father and everything changed. You could remember the sound of the gun firing, and you felt the blood spray all over your face. Your father, who had been towering over you with the broken bottle that he had used over your head, collapsed on top of you. From there, Jason had pulled him off of you and your mama had held you so tightly that you couldn’t breathe. The rest of that night was a mess of police sirens and tears. Jason getting taken away. “Said he knocked out his front row of teeth and broke his nose.”

“He deserved it,” Bucky said, his voice deep and low. He didn’t want you to get scared at just how angry he was, but _fuck_ , he was furious. He thought about his own sisters, how he would’ve reacted to some scumbag defiling their photographs, and he knew. “I would’ve done the same thing.”

“I just didn’t want him to be in there any longer,” you croaked, closing your eyes again as you take deep breaths. “There was a chance he was gonna get out a few months early because of good behavior.”

He stroked your hair, relishing in the feel of you in his arms. “Doll… Sweetheart…” Bucky wanted nothing more than to fix it for you. He’d even break your brother out of jail if he had to. “He’s gonna be okay.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he’s got you waiting for him on the outside,” he said, pulling back to look you in the eyes. He’s never gotten to be this close to you and he was right. Your eyes really did hold the stars in them. “And everything he’s done is for you.”

Your eyes stayed locked with his as you slowly nod, swallowing thickly. “Will you…” You cleared your throat and looked away, but he gently tilted your head back to face him. “Will you stay with me?”

His fingers rested under your chin, and he felt like he was moving in slow motion as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

His limbs felt heavy as he watched you tug down your jeans, leaving you in just your sweatshirt and underwear. His mouth felt dry and he can’t help but feel hot as you turn back to look at him.

“Are you really getting shy on me now, James?”

He can still see the effects of the alcohol in you, in how languid your movements are and how your speech sounds a little like you’re talking in cursive. He swallowed thickly around his tongue, turning his head. “Just don’t wanna make you uncomfortable,” he said.

A shiver ran down his spine, your fingers slowly running through his hair as you stand in between his legs. “James, you could never,” you murmured. Your tilted his chin up so his eyes met yours, and you smiled. “There he is.”

He stared up at you with wide blue eyes, his mouth hanging open. His metal fingers were cold against your skin as his hands rested on the back of your thighs. His heart caught in his throat as you leaned closer, freezing as your lips lock against his.

And it is everything.

But he quickly pulled away, shaking his head. “No. No, no, no. I can’t do this.”

“What?”

And you looked so heartbroken as he rushes to explain. “You’re drunk, doll. I-I want to kiss you more than anything—I want you more than anything—but I don’t want our first kiss to be something you regret.”

You pursed your lower lip and he can’t help but grin. “I won’t regret it.”

He tugged you into the bed and pulled you under the covers. “If you still wanna kiss me in the morning, I won’t stop you, babydoll.”

You immediately curled up against him, your legs tangling with his. His heart warmed as your hand tangled with his.

He’s a little lovestruck, staring down at you. He’d imagined this for months, and even though it wasn’t how he pictured it happening, it’s better than he ever thought it could be.


End file.
